Need
by Mythdefied
Summary: While watching Strife sleep, Cupid thinks about expectations and need. Slash, C&S.


General Comments: I can't begin to tell you how much I'm missing LJ, although I'm sure many of you don't need telling at all; you share my pain. I didn't realize how much of my life was on there until the system crashed, was sucked into that depthless void of tech FUBAR, abandoning us to flail about like fangirls thrown out of the fandom pool, despairing to ever again see the light of our LJs -- oookay, so maybe I'm a little further gone than most people. Right now it's either panic over possibly losing two years of fic/comments/ramblings/my bloody freakin' _life_ -- or cope. So I'm coping by writing. Enjoy the fruit of my crisis.

Very much not betaed; written off the top of my head and barely even glanced over so watch out for possible funny spelling and grammar mistakes.

Warnings: PG-13 for teensy bits of language and m/m innuendo

Disclaimers: Repeat after me: no money, no ownership, no infringement.

Archive: AJCS, Strife Lust Archive, my site, my LJ (whenever it's working again sob)

**Need**  
by Erin  
January 2005

Strife drooled when he slept. It wasn't something you'd expect of him, or any god for that matter, but that was Strife for you, always the exception to every rule.

There were a lot of things Strife did that weren't what you'd expect just from looking at him. At first glance you'd think he was a straight out bad-ass, as happy to kill you as look at you, and Cupid had bought into that image along with everyone else who didn't know Strife well.

Cupid had expected so many things the first time he took Strife to his bed. Everything from chains to bloodplay to out and out violence. It wasn't that Cupid was into any of that, it was more that he'd been curious. Strife had been an unknown, a mystery, and Cupid was always too curious for his own good, or at least that's what Ares had said when he warned Cupid away from Strife.

Of course Cupid hadn't listened -- he tried not to pay any more attention to Ares than absolutely necessary -- and he'd never regretted his little "experiment," his decision to try something new

Strife was hardly the gentlest, most caring lover Cupid had ever had. He could be rough, demanding, selfish and sometimes so intense that the air around him crackled with suppressed emotion. But he wasn't violent, never that, and he never went beyond a hard tussle in bed, never pulled out the knives or chains that Cupid had once expected.

Strife wasn't about any of that. He had his job and he never tried to deny that he loved it, the plotting, scheming and killings at Ares' directive or, more often, for his own amusement. That was what he did, but it wasn't all of who he was.

He could appreciate a gentle touch as much, if not more than a hard fuck. Cupid thought that maybe Strife hadn't had much gentleness in his life, that perhaps that was why Strife had let himself be seduced -- because Cupid didn't delude himself into thinking that he'd surprised Strife by taking him to bed. Strife was too suspicious, always knowing what every other god was doing, and he'd known when Cupid approached him, had already been smirking when Cupid had first touched him.

That first time, and many times since, Strife had been so much the opposite of what Cupid had thought, anticipated. No pain or weird, acrobatic positions; he'd returned kiss for kiss, his touch not quite as gentle as Cupid's but far from hurtful either. And he'd let Cupid hold him afterwards, relaxed into Cupid's arms, stroked his wings until Cupid felt like a cat wanting to purr.

Strife did have a strong touch and he didn't gentle it, but he didn't deliberately bruise either, not unless he asked first. And sometimes he did that, not always with words, sometimes with just a look, his hands bearing a slight tremble as they hovered over Cupid's skin, not daring to touch until he had permission to leave marks. And sometimes, Cupid had to admit, he wanted that too. It never crossed the line, that rough play never became anything twisted or bloody or horrific, it was just...release, of a different sort, and there were times when they both needed it.

Sex, fucking, making love, it was all a form of release, no matter what you called it, but there were others as well and they could be just as good, sometimes, maybe better. Like just lying together, touching without a definite goal in mind, talking even, and that really was something Cupid hadn't thought Strife would bother with. But Strife did like to talk, he amused himself and often enough, Cupid too. It wasn't about the entertainment though, it was about sharing, finding out that they had more in common than Cupid had ever suspected, finding out that they'd never run out of things to talk about. That they could laugh together, understand each other, find what they needed with words as much as bodies.

"Yurfetrsnyoth." The slurred mumble drew Cupid's attention.

Strife had one eye slitted open. He spit out the feather that had worked its way into his mouth at some point.

"Said, your feather's in my mouth." It was still a mumble, but far more understandable this time.

Cupid just smiled. Stretched out alongside Strife, it was easy to slide a hand out from between them and stroke his fingers down Strife's cheek.

"Mmm." Strife leaned into the touch, his eye drifting shut.

"Go back to sleep," Cupid said, his fingers lingering at Strife's ear, brushing over the cool metal of his earrings.

"'K," Strife murmured, sliding his bare leg over both of Cupid's.

He rubbed the side of his face against the wing he was lying on, his hands sliding up a few inches through the feathers before stilling as he fell back into the sleep he'd never really woken from.

Cupid moved his hand further up to gently card through the tangled mass of Strife's hair, letting the strands curl around his fingers. It wasn't as soft as he'd expected from another god, almost straw-like, actually. Vanity wasn't something that Strife seemed to worry much with; yet another oddity that made him what he was. So unique.

Cupid hadn't known he'd needed someone like Strife, hadn't known how much he needed, period. But Strife had, because need was something they shared in common and something they could, together, assuage.

Strife muttered something soft, incomprehensible, and his tongue flicked out, catching one of Cupid's feathers and pulling it into his mouth -- where he began to drool around it.

Sliding his hand from Strife's hair, Cupid grabbed the edge of the bed cover and pulled it higher. Letting it settle over them, the fringe brushing his shoulder, Cupid moved his hand lower and let it rest on Strife's bare hip. Strife didn't move, was too far asleep to feel it, but Cupid just wanted the contact, wanted to lie there and watch Strife while he slept. At the moment, it was all he needed.

Fin

(c) 1998-2006, Erin.


End file.
